


between two lungs

by meggie272



Category: Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: AU, Experimentation, Fluff, Kisses, M/M, awkward fourteen-year-old AU, but i worked on it for so long, even if it's shit, heronstairs, i hate this so much, platonic-ish kissing?, so i'm uploading it, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggie272/pseuds/meggie272
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Carstairs has something to teach William Herondale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between two lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Nervous and emotional adolescent Shadowhunter buddies freaking out and kissing and freaking out and having feelings.
> 
> If it's not obvious by the fact that they're both fourteen, this takes a couple of years before Clockwork Angel.

_Between two lungs it was released_  
the breath that passed from you to me  
\- Florence and the Machine

\------------

“Girls are stupid.

Pause.

“But they’re pretty too, I suppose.”

William Herondale is imparting the wisdom of the world to his best and favourite (and only) companion. Said companion is utterly clueless and desperately needs it. 

The scene – two fourteen-year-old boys, slim, slightly awkward things, both seated with crossed legs on a four poster bed. The bed belongs to the thinner, paler boy, the one with slanted silver eyes and hair like feathery moonlight. The fireplace crackles and casts a soft, muted yellow over everything, shadows and light lingering soft and lovely around shapes and corners, the air filled with lazy, comfortable warmth. It’s late. The Institute sleeps. Charlotte is under the mistaken delusion that Will and Jem are both sleeping in their separate rooms, but some nights staying up and talking is more important than what Charlotte says. 

Jem considers Will’s statement for a moment.

“Girls aren’t stupid,” is the conclusion he comes to.

“They are. All they care about is dresses, and silly things like that.” Will yawns. “And powdering their noses,” he adds. “Also cats.”

“Will.” Jem frowns, that quietly reproachful look on his face Will knows so very well. 

“Well, it’s true.” It’s not, and both of them are aware Will’s just trying to get a rise out of Jem. It works.

“It’s not. Women can be as strong and as brave as us. Especially Nephilim. Our women fight alongside us. They always have. What about Charlotte?”

“Charlotte! She’s tiny.”

Jem regards him intently. “But she’s strong. And brave. And very rarely powders her nose. Don’t try and deny it, Will.” A slightly devilish glint appears in his pale eyes, and his small mouth curves upwards at the edges. “You’re just bitter because no girl’s kissed you yet, nor you kissed a girl.”

“Vicious lies!” cries Will, the Welsh accent slipping through a little in the heat of the moment. He moves up on to his knees and leans forward so he can jab Jem in between his thin ribs. Jem laughs and wriggles away, the blankets making soft starchy rustles underneath them. 

“Well, it’s true,” Jem says, in an uncannily accurate imitation of Will’s voice, even with a hint of a roll on the vowels. “It’s perfectly fine, William. I’m sure one day you’ll convince some poor girl to come close enough that you can get the job done.”

Will’s mouth drops open slightly. This is what one gets when one offends Jem’s morals. This is also an insult of the highest calibre. He isn’t sure if he can ever forgive Jem for this.

Jem smiles in an innocently evil fashion, his body tensed imperceptibly in case Will goes in for the attack.

“I’ve kissed loads of girls,” Will says, squaring his shoulders. A flurry of rain hits the window.

Jem drops his innocuous smirk and narrows his eyes just slightly. The firelight is casting shadows on his thin, angular face. “Really?” He tilts his head questioningly.

“Yes,” Will says firmly. He nods his head sharply, just to make it clear there’s no doubt on the subject.

His friend raises his eyebrows appraisingly, a mixture of surprise, contemplation and disbelief painted on his features. Will is _not_ blushing, but the room feels considerably more warm. He shifts awkwardly on the bedspread, wriggling back down into a sitting position. 

There’s a couple of moments of silence. The rain that flung itself at the window has calmed into a drizzle, the sound settling in amongst the crackle of fire and the inaudible humming of the Institute’s stone walls. 

The couple of moments turn into more moments, and they stretch out like taffy.

It’s excruciating.

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” Will eventually blurts out. 

Jem throws his head back and laughs, soft and thin like threads of silk. “I believe you!”

“Really?

“No.”

“I have!”

Jem levels a stare at him, an awfully direct and accusing one, and Will finally gives in. “No. I – yes. I haven’t.” 

Jem smiles, very sweetly, a sort of ‘it’s perfectly fine’ smile, and it’s quite infuriating. Of course he wouldn’t mind. He never does. Will has done much more terrible things than lie about kisses, but Jem has never hated him for it. Ever.

"It doesn't matter. On the scale of things, it's very unimportant, I think." 

Will’s gratefulness for the being that is Jem is almost embarrassing in its magnitude. 

Jem shifts a little and looks up at the ceiling – Will watches the tendons move under the white skin of his neck and feels the irritability in his veins mingle and dilute with a sudden warmth.

Will can _love Jem_ – Will can love Jem, because Jem is already dying, and Will clings on to that love like it’s a raft in a stormy ocean. He fumbles around these feelings, unable to put them into words, or into logical strings of thought, but there it is – all of his heart is poured into Jem. He is cold and hateful to all the world, except for Jem. Jem keeps him from turning into stone. Jem keeps him flesh and blood. Will can let him in. He can love him. His feelings for Jem are multiplied a thousandfold, because Will can have no other than this one friend – every bit of warmth inside him belongs to James Carstairs. 

It’s like the constant careful control of everything Will feels and thinks and says has led somehow to these moments of sentiment that explode as quickly as a rifle. Will feels everything so strongly, when he lets himself. He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he knew more about how Jem’s emotions work – whether they spread like water or unfold like paper cranes or bloom like flowers or crack like a gun. 

Will has read many stories of _parabatai_ – of David and Jonathan and their eternal bond. Every time, he has closed his eyes and replaced the faces of these once-heroes with James and William. 

Jem will be his _parabatai_ one day. He knows this. All of his muddled thoughts about his moonlit companion can be summed up in that one sentence. Jem will be his parabatai one day. _Whither thou goest, I will go._

And with a snap Jem brings his head back down, looking at Will again. Will suddenly notices how tired his friend looks now, and it pulls Will out of his introspective and awfully soppy mood – do other fourteen-year-old boys think this much? Will would't know. Jem’s eyes are half-lidded and heavy underneath with shadows. He is sitting cross-legged and slumped. 

“Perhaps I should go to bed.” He makes to move off the bed, swinging his legs over the edge, moving away from his thoughts.

“No. Don’t go.” Jem catches at his hand and pulls him, so Will scrambles back up again, the brocade on the blanket tickling his bare ankle. He ends up sitting on his knees again. Jem’s bare toes are just touching him, brushing against the fabric of his britches. 

“But you’re tired – ” Will protests.

“I’m not that tired.” Jem grins wickedly and suddenly, akin to the leaping flames in the fireplace. His hair is wild wisps of silver and black all around his face, the weariness of his face transformed to mischief. “Why haven’t you kissed a girl? Don’t you want to?”

Will squirms under his scrutiny a little, tugging at a curl and trying to look nonchalant and masculine, a thick defensive embarrassment below his skin. It’s not that he fears the curse. It’s perfectly possible to kiss pretty girls and not love them. It was one of the first things Will noticed when observing the ways and whims of boys older than him. The actual truth behind Will’s lack of amorous experience is significantly more discomfiting. Still, it’s Jem, and…

“I do. The problem is that…well…I don’t – really – I don’t…know how.”

He sighs with release. There goes his big confession. Now for the judgement. He awaits.

Jem’s smile spreads open and sweet like a flower. “But it’s easy!” 

“Well, I mean…” Will grimaces and looks up at the corner of the room, where the wallpaper is peeling a little. “I know how. Technically. It’s just…mouths.” He waves his hands vaguely. “But I don’t see how it’s supposed to be – um.” He tries to say ‘pleasurable’. The word won’t come out. “…Good. I feel there’s some detail I’m missing.”

Jem’s mouth tugs down at the corners in a thoughtful manner, tapping his fingertips together. “It’s in the technique, I think. The fine details of it. The movement of the lips. The placement of the hands.” He looks up at Will, under his eyelashes, and smiles, slowly. There’s a bit of a flush across his thin cheekbones. 

There is something in Jem’s eyes – the same thing that’s there when he spars with Will in the training room. 

Will raises his eyebrows in response, letting go of his end of the conversation string. He doesn’t really want to talk about kissing anymore. It’s getting strange.

At first the silence isn’t too bad, and then no one says anything, and the profuse embarrassment underneath Will’s skin seems to move through him and hover between them. All other possible conversational topics have completely left Will’s head, and he can’t figure out why. He’s never had trouble thinking of things to say to Jem before, but he feels both older and younger in this moment than he ever has before and it’s confusing him. What strange thing has happened to the air between them?

Why, for God’s sakes, can he not think of a joke to make?

“Will,” Jem says, low.

He jerks his head up; too quickly. “Yes?” A witty remark half-formed in his mind turns and runs for it. 

Jem’s eyes are big, and he looks nervous, and intense, as if there’s words building up under his skin. That _thing_ is still there, but it’s clouded by uncertainty. 

“…yes?” Will tries again hesitantly.

“Doyouwantmetoshowyou,” explodes out of Jem, and then his mouth snaps shut and he seems to recoil a little, pulling away from Will so his toes aren’t brushing his friend’s legs anymore. The action and the words contradict each other, but Will thinks he knows how Jem feels.

“I. Er.” 

“Kissing, I mean,” Jem adds. 

“No, no, I understand.”

“…yes.”

“Why?” Will manages. He feels dreadful. 

“Because…” Jem twists his mouth a little. “Because – you said you didn’t know how and, well, I do and it works best as a practical exercise and - well, it's just that – ” he stops suddenly. 

Will’s head feels fuzzy, and suddenly his heart is beating like a wild thing, bursting and throbbing in his chest. He feels a prickle of heat go up his neck. Jem looks like a startled deer.

Will has no idea what he wants.

Jem is…not a girl? Yes, that’s…different, and probably not the usual. In fact it’s definitely not the usual. But Jem’s not usual either and Will has shamefully thought of him as beautiful for quite a while now and – it’s not like Jem meant anything _romantic –_

God, it feels like there is a bird trapped in his ribcage. He is 99% sure he is sweating profusely. Why is the room so warm? 

“I…apologise, if I’ve, um – ” Jem’s voice is small. 

Will clears his throat. 

“…some offence…” His friend’s voice trails down to nothing. 

Jem looks utterly ashamed now, as if he’s ready to run, as if he’s committed some dreadful crime, and Will can’t stand that. His decision is made in a split second, if only to get that look off his friend’s face. 

“Well…I suppose…as a friendly. Um. Maneuver. Practise exercise. Training. Yes. Training.” 

A nervous laugh breaks out from Jem. “Please understand, Will, I don’t mean anything strange by this.”

“I wouldn’t care if you did,” Will snaps impatiently, and where did that come from? But Jem is already leaning in towards him, and Will can feel his hot breath on his face. The rain shakes the windows now, building up in intensity, and everything feels tiny, claustrophobic, the entire world narrowed down to this room, to Jem an inch away from his face, to the burnt-sugar and soap smell of his friend, to the firelight and the rain and the bed. 

“Don’t be nervous,” Jem whispers, and their lips aren’t touching yet, but Will can feel the vibrations of it against his mouth. His eyes are half-fluttered shut, because Jem is very, very close. The quiet words annoy him. He’s not some fainting girl. 

“I’m not, you idiot,” Will murmurs back, and just to prove it he moves that tiny bit forward, the tightness in his chest uncurling, blooming frantically like some fervently alive flower, sending tendrils of electricity down every single one of his limbs. Jem’s lips touch his and he has a sudden moment of arching panic as nothing happens except for the light pressure of skin on skin. For half a second, he thinks they’ll be stuck forever in this awkward, transitory moment, an eternity of doubt.

Then Jem’s mouth presses harder for a second – Will can feel the slight chapping of Jem’s mouth, can hear Jem breathing in through his nose – and there is an undeniable kissing noise as their lips separate. Will has kept his mouth pressed tightly shut the entire time. Jem pulls away the slightest bit, their noses brushing gently, the aftermath of it pooling thick and heavy around them. Jem’s eyelashes are casting shadows on his cheekbones.

“That can’t be all there is to it,” Will says softly.

“No, it’s not. Idiot.” And Jem’s hand comes up and cups the back of Will’s neck, pulling him in again, and the bird in Will’s chest beats its wings furiously in love and hate. Their mouths meet, more firmly this time. Will knows there’s a solid core of power and strength in Jem that breaks through the mild sweetness of his demeanour at the perfect times, and now is one of those absolutely faultless moments. Some part of his brain says _Jolly good show_ in Henry’s voice and he has a brief suicidal urge that fades abruptly as Jem kisses him with a delightful certainty and doesn't pull away – as Jem kisses him a second time, and a third time, except it's like every kiss is joined together, their lips tangling and bruising against each other. A fourth time. He angles his head, and their lips slot together smoother, better, Jem’s mouth on the swell of Will’s bottom lip, Will finding himself in sudden possession of Jem’s upper lip. He doesn’t exactly return the kiss but his mouth parts a little without him telling it to. A fifth time. A sixth time. 

Jem’s other hand ghosts over Will’s knee. Something instinctive in Will takes over, and he kisses back, trying to do what Jem is doing. It’s suddenly very easy, and he puts one hand softly between them on Jem’s chest. He can feel Jem’s heart thrumming fever-quick beneath his palm, and curls his fingers into the fabric of his friend’s shirt. Jem sighs a little against his mouth, and Will’s blood sings in his veins. He can...feel, smell, taste Jem on a scale that is dizzying and extraordinary - is that the drug he can taste or is that just his imagination? - can feel his lips slick with spit, and it’s not as strange as one might think, to have your best friend’s hand soft as a butterfly on your neck, to be joined and pressed together, breathing each other’s breath.

Jem has kept him alive, has been the breath in his lungs and the blood in his veins and the heart in his chest, so it’s fitting, in a way. 

Suddenly, with a big rushing inhalation of air, Jem pulls abruptly away. Will’s fingers are still knotted tightly in his shirt. It feels like they’ve turned to stone.

Jem’s eyes are open wide. He swallows and his throat bobs. _Bloody hell._

“I…” Will’s voice sounds thick and husky, so he clears his throat, far too harshly. “That was. Informative.” A nervous laugh-breath rushes out. “Th-thank you, James.”

“My pleasure,” Jem says faintly, a slightly dazed sound to his words. His hair has fallen over his face, and his heart is still rattling like carriage wheels under Will’s fingers. 

Will has a sudden full-body sensation of horror, and releases Jem’s shirt abruptly. The embarrassed panic sizzles in his veins for a moment, and he breathes through it. Once it’s over, he meets Jem’s eyes with his. There is no judgement there, only a softness. Thank God it’s not some kind of…soppy, flowery sentiment, no confession of something new, it’s just Jem, looking back at him. 

It’s just Jem.

It’s always been just Jem, and tonight is no different.

He moves his hand to cover his friend’s, feeling the bones and tendons under impossibly thin skin. “Perhaps you should go to sleep.”

“Perhaps I should,” Jem replies quietly, drawing his hand out from beneath Will’s and pushing lightly at Will’s shoulder. “Get out, you dolt.” And with the insult things are mostly how they were before.

Mostly.

It’s just Jem.

Will slides off the bed, grabbing a cushion as he goes so that he can pelt it viciously at Jem from the door. “You’re a brute,” he hears Jem mumble into the cushion, and with that he goes to bed.

\-----

The next morning Will is washed and dressed and has tugged on his boots, and is walking alone through the hallway to where breakfast awaits with the promise of bacon.

Charlotte appears behind him, rustling and bright-eyed. Her hair wisps a little around her face. “Good morning, Will.”

“Charlotte.” He nods. 

The morning is cold. It seems chilliness is coming out of the walls.

They walk side by side in silence – Charlotte is obviously not energised enough yet to try and be friendly with him – until they pass Jem’s door and hear strains of violin soaking through the woodwork. 

“What is he playing for, silly child?” Charlotte stops and puts a small hand on the frame of the door. “He should be down at the breakfast table already.”

Memories of last night twitch in Will’s fingers. He looks down at his boots and forces his hands still.

“Oh, but – he’s playing something new.” Charlotte’s brow furrows. “I haven’t heard this before.”

Jem has been playing more and more of his own compositions lately, and they’re mostly haunting, beautiful things – the whole household says they’re ‘mournful’ but Will can read the truth in them, the fear of death, the aching for a family lost. 

“It’s different from his usual repertoire, don’t you think?” Charlotte asks him. “More…flowery.”

Will lets the music sink in. Charlotte is right, he’s playing something different – some different story is being told here, a different picture is being painted. 

A disgustingly romantic picture.

It sounds like…it sounds like the orchestral background music to the romantic conclusion of a play. It sounds like – well, it sounds like a kiss. It sounds like an awkward but fundamentally beautiful meeting of mouths. It sounds like firelight and warmth and rapid heartbeats and – 

He knows it means nothing to Charlotte, but to Will it seems like Jem might as well have been shouting the details of last night down the stairway for all and sundry to hear. 

Will blushes like a beetroot, and runs away to breakfast.


End file.
